August 31, 2011

The spiders are building.

Practical cathedrals threaded needles; they weave in and weave out like sweaters on the plants. Keep warm the reaching limbs, for soon the leaves will succumb to the autumnal exposure. Here in the center of a city is Wildwood Trail, a break from the busy Portland streets and crowded zoo. My arachnophobic inclinations keep my skin crawling and peeling from the ever growing presence of legs. So, too, do the trees crawl and peel until the shedding callus of bark exposes the raw skin.

External scaffolds hold in place the webbed architecture. Gothic in nature, both appalling and appealing, the heights intimidate and fill me with fear. Spires spikes gargoyles, who knows what treacherous holy idols hide in the silken cathedral?

From my vantage point on the ground, it can only go up. Up go the spiders, up go the trees, up go the vines. Lift your weary head, traveler! Why not join the stretching growing world? Limbs raised high, reaching beyond capacity I grow; my arms may tear from the strain but still they seek out the nourishment of the sun and the insects. I am a leaf and a web. We all grope blindly towards the sky.

But no; I am exposed. If I continue, I may burst forth from the canopy. Secrets will spill and be revealed. The dreadful thought keeps me from advancing. What I need now is shelter. I’ve exceeded my limit and must recoil from this intimate interaction. Those that proceed can shelter the needy. I will cower in the midst of a willing tree.

I fade. Pallid and tired I watch the forest photosynthesize. I wither in the shade. My crumbling gray skin is dust from dust to dust I’m dust. The fire was too much for my fragile existence, but still the spiders burn. I blow away and watch the spider-glow. They have no fear and the sun passes, leaving them ablaze from the peripheral glance. Grow strong and sprout your sacred horns! The wind carries me from the woods and drops me in the nearest glass. I am the ash in your tea.